


The Process of Adaptation

by kaiface



Series: Continuing Works In Varying States of Progress [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison is a Disney Princess, Alpha Derek, Alpha Isaac Lahey, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Erica, BAMF Isaac, BAMF Lydia, BAMF Stiles, Curses, Derek Feels, Derek Hale & Isaac Lahey Friendship, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Uses His Words, Derek is a Good Friend, Disregards Most of The Events of Season 3 Entirely, Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Isaac Lahey's Past Abuse, Lydia is Perfect, M/M, Magic, Magical Shenanigans, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Danny, POV Derek, POV Isaac, POV Lydia, POV Multiple, Post Season 2/Season 3, Three Years Later, Witches, Wolf Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiface/pseuds/kaiface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Isaac leaves Beacon Hills for good, an incident leads to Isaac and Peter being cursed by a coven of angry witches. Everything kind of goes to shit after that.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Or, the one where Peter is a wolf, Isaac is an Alpha, and Everything Is Horribly Wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Seattle was gorgeous.

They took their time on the road trip, stopping at roadside attractions at Isaac's insistence. State parks, as well. They stopped at the coast several times, simply because Isaac wanted to see the ocean from different points of view. Peter drove them through the forests of northern California, where they met a large pack that had been long time family friends of the Hales. Isaac was surprised to find that they were well-received as guests of the pack, an alpha Hale and his beta, passing through on their way to Washington for business.

The expected duration of their stay there? Indefinite.

They looked at apartments online at rest stops and when they stopped for meals, so they had one already picked out and had an appointment scheduled with the leasing office by the time they got to Washington. After staying the night a “proper hotel” as Peter had called in, instead of one of the many roadside motels they had stayed in on the drive, they did a walk-through of the loft. Peter signed the lease. Then came furniture shopping, grocery shopping, clothes shopping. Isaac found a record store within walking distance of the loft, and they became well acquainted with the owners. Once they were sufficiently settled, Peter cooked them an amazing meal. They celebrated by breaking in their new bed.  
  
Isaac finished school a few months after they got settled, and considered getting a part-time job just to have something to do during the day. It wasn't like they needed the money, Peter's inheritance was, as Isaac had found out, kind of huge. He didn't know how much _exactly_ , but when Peter told him that they could live comfortably, anywhere they wanted, for the rest of their lives...Isaac believed him.

He checked his email after a few months and found a flood of messages from Erica. Each one broke his heart a little more than the last, until she started sending him real messages, at least. The pack updates were good, they helped ease some of the guilt that had been twisting in Isaac since they left. Not that he could have stayed, not if he wanted to be with Peter, and he wanted that more than anything.

He sent her a video for her birthday. The others, he saved to a folder called “Sunshine Twin” to look at when he misses home. He never responded to any of them, though, didn't want to encourage her to search him out.

Peter waited a full year before he started sniffing around for pack members. Isaac was actually rather surprised by the amount of self-control he showed in making that decision. It made sense, of course. Peter had explained it to him – better for them to settle in, get comfortable, and learn the boundaries of any existing packs in the area before they started recruiting.

Within six months, Peter had two new betas, a woman named Emily who went by 'Em', and a man named Jackson, of all things. Peter called him Dodger, once, a jab at the man's overconfidence and self-assumed charm. Isaac laughed for ten solid minutes when he realized that Peter referenced a Disney movie, and the nickname stuck.

Isaac and Peter trained together, and they trained the betas together, taught them to control the shift. Another surprise – Isaac was in almost every way Peter's equal within the pack. 'Their de facto leader,' Peter had called him once, joking and yet not. Peter held all of the alpha powers, but he gave Isaac authority within the pack, and the other two betas, although both a few years older than Isaac, respected that authority. Respected him. It was something he had always sort of felt was missing, with Derek, and the pack he had tried to build. They were supposed to trust each other, be a family for each other, but they were all still so young and bitter.

It took some time for Isaac to accept that it never would have worked out.

Six months after Em and Dodger joined their ranks, the twins showed up.

Isaac expected a fight, but they were in poor shape. They asked to see the alpha, and Isaac reluctantly brought them to Peter. It turned out they had the same general idea when they fled the Argents and Beacon Hills, coming north. They laid low for a while, healed, started a pack of their own; everything had been going fine until they encroached on the territory belonging to a coven of witches, further in the south. There was a fight, most of their pack was decimated, and the coven leader stripped them of their alpha powers.

Omegas never survived long without a pack, so they came looking for one to join. Rumors had spread about a new Hale pack based out of Seattle, and they decided to take the chance. Isaac wanted to kill them outright, revenge for coming after them in Beacon Hills, but Peter talked him down. They made the decision together, and welcomed Ethan and Aiden into the pack. The twins warned Peter that the coven may come looking for them, but he was unconcerned.

Life continued on as normal.

Isaac didn't fully trust the twins at first, but they seemed happy to take orders from Peter, and they respected Isaac's authority in the same way that Em and Dodger did. They trained hard and worked hard, and taught the pack things they had learned from living with the alpha pack. They helped Peter assemble a new, more complete bestiary, using their knowledge and his.

Everything was going great.

And while it hurt to admit it, Isaac found he was missing Beacon Hills less and less every day. He kept checking his email, but after two years, the daily updates from Erica had dwindled down to once every few weeks, and then once a month. Eventually, they stopped completely. Isaac still never wrote her back, and the lack of incoming emails from her worried him, at first. It made him sad, of course, but he hoped she was happy and healthy and safe. He thought about calling, once or twice, but could never work himself up to it.

In the spring, they received a letter from the pack they had stayed with in the redwood forests, inviting them to come visit. Peter wrote back, thanking them for the invitation and accepting it. In his letter, he told the alpha when to expect them. A week later, the pack loaded up their cars and headed south.

When they got there, however, it wasn't the wolf pack waiting for them.

 


	2. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Isaac decides he hates magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Chapter one.
> 
> I have no idea how long this is going to be, so this is going to be an adventure for all of us.

There's a throbbing behind Isaac's eyes. It feels like his blood is on fire in his veins. His mouth is dry and tastes like metal and ozone. The inside of his skull feels like the crackle in the air during a lightning storm, every muscle in his body aches, and his vision has gone white from the pain so many times he's lost count.

And through it all, the only thought he can complete is, ' _I fucking hate_ _magic._ '

It turns out that the coven that Ethan and Aiden pissed off were still, in fact, pissed. Apparently, they had bitten two members of the coven just before the leader took their alpha powers. The witches, unable to take the bite, had died. So the coven had been tracking the twins since their arrival in Seattle, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. When they heard about their plans to meet with the pack in California, the witches planned carefully.

The coven got there the day before them and wiped out the pack. There was nothing left of them by the time Peter, Isaac, and their pack arrived.

They were ambushed.

The pack fought hard. Isaac was proud of them, impressed by how well they worked together, but it was short lived. There was little they could do in close-quarters combat against magic. Bruised and beaten, Peter ordered a retreat.

Isaac rolls over, spits a mouthful of blood into the dirt and leaves. His memory is hazy, and he tries to fight through the pain to remember.

He remembers Ethan and Aiden leading Em and Dodger away from the fight, and Peter heading off the coven leader when she tried to give chase. He remembers Peter's angry roar when one of the witches threw Isaac into a tree with a blast of energy, remembers the way his ribs cracked, the way it felt like he was being crushed when he tried to suck in a breath.

The pain is slowly ebbing away, he thinks, or he's becoming more used to it, Isaac isn't actually sure which. He rolls onto his back and sucks in a labored breath, lets it out in a sigh of relief when he feels that his ribs have mostly mended, but that makes him wonder how long he had been lying there on the forest floor. It takes some effort, but he pries his eyes open, groaning when the sunlight filtering through the trees sends a sharp pain through his head. He barely hears his own voice over the ringing in his ears, muffling most of the sounds of the forest around him. Isaac brings a hand to his head and feels sticky wetness at his temple, blood that's been there long enough to cool but not long enough to dry completely.

He lies there for longer than he should, sucking in shallow breaths, taking stock of himself. The ringing in his ears subsides as the crackling of what he assumes is residual magic in his body fades. He's sore all over, but he's alive. His ribs are tender, healing slowly, and the throbbing in his head is persistent, but otherwise, he seems to be uninjured, which he's pretty sure is some kind of miracle.

There's a rustle of leaves somewhere to Isaac's left, and a whine that sounds more animal than human. He tries to sit up too fast and has to close his eyes, a wave of nausea rolling through him at the pain that the sudden motion causes. Isaac makes it to his hands and knees before he retches, nothing more than blood and stomach acid making its way out of him as his body shakes. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's finished and sits back on his heels, fingers digging into the dirt and leaves and tangle of tree roots under him to keep himself steady. There's another whine beside him and he turns slowly, so as not to upset his stomach again.

Six feet away, laying on its side in the dirt and leaves, is a gray wolf. It's facing away from him, and Isaac feels a pit of dread start to form in his stomach.

He glances around the area, but the coven is long since gone, and Peter is nowhere to be seen. The knot of dread twists his stomach, and coupled with the lingering pain, causes a cold sweat to break out over Isaac's brow, stinging the wound on his temple that hasn't quite healed yet. His limbs are still shaking, so he doesn't try to stand, instead crawling slowly and carefully over the uneven ground towards the animal. It's awake enough to hear his approach and it tries to move, but it can't seem to lift itself up and lets out another pitiful whine instead. Isaac can see it's body tense as he moves slowly around it, but it relaxes when he moves into it's line of sight.

The wolf lets out another low whine and rolls onto its belly, but its limbs are trembling the same way Isaac's are, so it settles its chin on its front paws and stares at him as he stares back.

His stomach twists again and Isaac sits heavily in the dirt, lifting a shaking hand toward the wolf. It watches him woefully, and its eyes slide shut when Isaac tangles his fingers into the thick fur at the scruff of it's neck.

“Peter?” Isaac's voice shakes, and the wolf whines again, nuzzling its snout against his knee. He laughs, high pitched and hysterical. It's involuntary, but he can't stop it, he just laughs and laughs and shakes and cries. The wolf – Peter, god, it's Peter – opens its eyes and looks at him, and Isaac thinks he might throw up again when they flash blue instead of red.

“Fuck,” he breathes, removing his hand from Peter's fur to wipe the tears from his face, smearing dirt and blood over his cheeks in the process. He's still shaking as he wipes his hands on his jeans, and then they're back in Peter's fur, stroking over him, checking for injuries. Peter bares his teeth and snarls when Isaac runs a hand over one of his front legs, and Isaac lets out another hysterical laugh. It's hard to tell, and he doesn't know a lot about canine anatomy, but he thinks it's broken.

“Are you,” Isaac swallows when Peter looks at him, attentive as he talks, “Can you heal, like this?”

Maybe it's stupid, talking to him like he can answer, but Peter seems to at least understand what he's saying, and huffs a breath in response. Isaac doesn't know what that means. They're in the middle of a forest, their pack is nowhere to be seen, his boyfriend is a _fucking wolf_ , and if the flash of blue in his eyes is any indication, the witches took Peter's alpha powers, on top of it all.

Isaac wants to cry.

Instead, he forces himself to stand, and wills some steadiness back to his limbs. The magic attacks left him weak, and his head is spinning, but he manages to stay upright. Peter copies him and struggles to his feet. He falls once, on his injured leg, and the yelp of pain that comes from him makes Isaac cringe. It takes a few tries, but he finds balance on three legs instead of four and looks at Isaac, waiting.

“Okay,” Isaac says, more to himself than to Peter, and he looks around the forest, tries to get a handle on where the hell they are. “Okay. Let's...try to find the car, if it's even still here.”

They walk together through the trees in silence for what feels like ages. His sense of time is skewed from the fight and being knocked out, and the whole area smells like residual magic. A few trees are scorched, although from lightning or fire, he can't tell. There's also a disconcerting amount of blood on everything, but Isaac tries not to think of where it came from. The last thing he needs right now is his imagination getting away from him. What he needs is to find the car, get his phone, and call the pack. Find out if they made it away safely, or if the coven caught up with them. He needs to figure out what to do next.

The car is surprisingly intact when they finally reach it, and Isaac opens the back door for Peter, who climbs in carefully and immediately lays across the seats, huffing an exhausted-sounding breath. Isaac laughs breathlessly, so overwhelmed by the situation that laughter seems to be the only thing he has left. He fishes the keys out of his pocket and sits in the drivers seat. The engine starts without a hitch, which is also a surprise; he half expected the coven to have fried the system or turned it into some kind of eldritch horror in their absence.

Peter's phone is sitting in the cup holder where he left it, and Isaac isn't nearly as surprised to see that it's dead. He plugs it into the charger and breathes a sigh of relief when it turns on. He lets it finish loading, and sees several missed calls from Aiden, but no voicemail. Hand shaking, he dials Aiden and puts the phone on speaker, turning sideways in the seat to watch Peter as the phone rings, and rings.

It clicks when Aiden picks up, and before Isaac can say anything, the other beta is talking.

“Peter, where the hell are you?” Isaac laughs again, hysterical and relieved and about a dozen other things that he can't name.

“It's Isaac,” he says, then swallows, “Are you okay? Did you make it out?”

“We're fine, Em's got a concussion and Dodger's got a broken leg, but we're okay,” Aiden explains, and Isaac hears Ethan in the background, but can't make out what he's saying. He breathes another, longer, sigh of relief, and watches Peter do the same. “Are _you_ okay? Where's Peter?”

“He's here,” Isaac says, but Peter can't offer him any help here, and he doesn't know how much he should divulge to the other beta. “We're okay, I think. Something happened, but I'm going to fix it.”  
  
There's silence on the line for longer than Isaac is comfortable with, and finally Aiden asks, “What did they do to him?”

Isaac looks at Peter searchingly, but Peter just rolls his eyes and huffs a breath.

“I'm not sure,” Isaac says honestly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His head is still throbbing, but it's not as bad now. “He's...a wolf. I don't think he can change back.”

Aiden is quiet for a beat, and then he says, “And what did they do to you?”

Isaac's head seems to throb extra hard in answer, so he closes his eyes and leans his head against the seat. He can sense Peter looking at him from the backseat, but he doesn't want to look back, to see an expression he can't decipher on a canine face. His stomach turns.

“Nothing? I don't know,” he tells Aiden after too long, blowing out a sigh at the end. He looks at the clock on the dash. It's 7:48 in the morning; they must have been lying out in the forest all night. Isaac catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror, sees the blood dried on his face and in his hair, the dirt smeared over his cheeks. There's a leaf in his hair, and he reaches up to pull it out, then rolls down the car window and tosses it out. His head is pounding and he's not sure if it's something that can be fixed by triggering the shift, or if he needs to wait it out. Some food and water probably wouldn't hurt either, he knows, but first he needs a game plan.

“Where are you?” He asks, when Aiden doesn't say anything else, and Isaac tries to focus on the pack, on organizing. He really _is_ the de facto leader now, what with Peter being a _wolf_ , but also apparently no longer an alpha. Isaac doesn't want to deal with this; he wants a fourteen hour nap and a pizza. He hears a shuffle over the phone and then Em is speaking into it.

“We're at my cousin's house in Portland,” she says, and Isaac is relieved to hear her voice, sounding slightly pained but otherwise no worse for wear. That also tells him where the other car went, and he's infinitely more glad to know they still have reliable transportation. “We're trying to regroup, but we were worried about you and Peter. Is he...”

“We're fine,” Isaac insists when she trails off, sounding unsure. “Lay low there until you're all travel fit. There's a credit card in the glove box, use it for gas and head back to Seattle as soon as you can.”

“Are you sure? The coven could be waiting for us there,” Em argues, and Isaac curses softly, dragging a hand over his face.

“They left me and Peter alive, and if they're chasing you, they would have caught up already,” he tries to sound sure, but he's really not. What if the coven is waiting for them in Seattle? What if he's sending his pack to their deaths? “Whatever they wanted, they must have gotten it. Maybe turning Peter into a wolf was all the payback they needed.”

“What are you going to do?” Aiden again. Isaac realizes they must have him on speaker. He chews his lip and looks at Peter, who stares back and sighs through his nose. Isaac sighs as well.

“I have to find a way to change him back,” Isaac says, and it's the only thing he's sure of. The alpha powers are a whole other concern, but they can't deal with that until Peter is in his proper form again. He doesn't even know if that's possible; he had heard of witches, but until yesterday, he had never actually seen one, or what their powers could do. This needs to be handled carefully, he knows, but concentrating is hard.

Isaac closes his eyes and focuses on the shift, and there's a warm, almost tingling pull under his skin that's new. It's not bad, but it startles his eyes open, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again.

His eyes flash red before returning to their normal, human color.

Bile rises in his throat.

“I have to go,” he says, doesn't realize that Em and Aiden have been talking to him until they fall silent.

“Is everything okay?” Aiden asks immediately, but Isaac is staring at himself in the mirror. He sees Peter watching him, but Isaac can't tell what he's thinking. His heart is pounding so hard in his ears he almost doesn't hear the question.

“Yeah, I,” he pauses and swallows, tries to shake some sense into himself. He makes a flash decision, straightens out in the seat, and buckles himself in. “We have some friends in southern Cali, I need to take Peter to them and see if they can help. Head to Seattle. Keep me updated on where you are. If you run into trouble, do not try to fight. Run, and hide. Can you do that?”

Aiden and Em both make noises that aren't words, but Isaac needs an affirmative. He growls softly and repeats himself, “Can you do that?”

“Yeah, we can do that,” Aiden says, and Emily tacks on, “Be safe, Isaac.”

He hangs up the call and drops the phone into the cup holder to let it charge. Peter gives a soft whine from the back seat, an inquisitive sound, and Isaac meets his gaze in the mirror.

“Well,” he says, smiling grimly, “Ready to go back to Beacon Hills?”

 


	3. Unexpected Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Isaac and Peter arrive back in Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

It's more than a fifteen hour trip south to Beacon Hills. Isaac stops as few times as possible, splitting a piece of gas station pizza with Peter here or there, occasionally catching a half-hour of sleep when it feels like he can't keep his eyes open any longer. He's still exhausted from the encounter with the coven, and he's trying to keep himself convinced that it's normal, maybe he just needs rest. Being away from the pack doesn't help, he figures.

Having his boyfriend's alpha powers thrust on him after said boyfriend is turned into an actual wolf probably doesn't help, either.

Beacon Hills is not the same as it was when they left, that much is obvious immediately. Driving through the town gives Isaac some painful nostalgia, too many places remaining unchanged that remind him of his childhood. Time changes everything, however, and although Isaac was sure that Beacon Hills would remain forever unchanged until the end of time, he was wrong.

Three years means a lot of little things are different, things that Isaac thinks he probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't a werewolf. Trees that have grown bigger, paint on buildings that has worn down and started to chip, others that have had recent fresh coats of paint. There are new storefronts in place of old ones that Isaac had grown up knowing, people he doesn't recognize coming and going from old and new bars and restaurants.

It's nearly midnight by the time they pull up outside of the loft. Isaac parks the car and kills the engine, leaning back in the seat and staring at the building searchingly for several minutes before Peter makes a noise behind him, startling him out of his thoughts. Isaac unbuckles his seat belt and twists in his seat, looking into the back of the car. Peter is laying across the seats in the same position he held through most of the drive, head resting on his front paws and looking at Isaac with the same unreadable expression.

“What,” Isaac says, rather than asks, and Peter tilts his head slightly, points his nose out the window toward the building. Isaac sighs and runs a hand through his hair, which is desperate need of a wash. Really, he needs a shower, but he managed to at least clean up the blood and dirt from his face and hands at the first stop outside of the forest.

“Look,” he starts, glancing at the building himself. He can see lights on in the loft, knows that someone is home, at least. “It's been three years. What if he doesn't even live here anymore? What if he hates me for leaving?”

Peter rolls his eyes and huffs a breath, then sits up and presses his cold, wet nose against Isaac's. Isaac closes his eyes and sighs again, reaching up to run his fingers through the fur at Peter's neck. After a moment, he opens his eyes and pulls away, grabbing the keys from the ignition and Peter's phone from the cup holder, pocketing both before getting out of the car. Peter doesn't wait for him to open the back door, just climbs over the front seat and exits behind Isaac.

They walk up to the building in silence. Isaac considers calling Derek, hand in his pocket, hefting the weight of Peter's phone. He knows the number is saved, but would Derek answer? They hadn't seen him in three years, hadn't been in contact at all. All Isaac had left him with was a note, and Erica a card and an email. Suddenly, he's regretting coming here at all.

He swallows his pride and gets on the elevator with Peter, knowing that they have no other choice. They're already here, and where else could they go? The only other pack they were even semi-acquainted with had been slaughtered by the coven.

Ultimately, he decides against calling ahead. He regrets this decision, too, when they're standing in front of the door to Derek's loft. Isaac and Peter share a look, and then Isaac raises and hand and knocks solidly, three times. The sound echoes off of the large metal door and the blank walls of the hallway and eventually dies, and for several long minutes, he thinks no one is going to come to the door. The light is on inside, and he's pretty sure he heard at least one voice somewhere upstairs, but now there's no sound coming from inside at all.

“Maybe we should have called,” he mumbles, glancing at Peter, who is standing with his head cocked slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the door of the loft, listening. Isaac raises an eyebrow and tries to listen again, and suddenly the door is being rolled open.

It takes him a second to recognize the person standing in the doorway. He catalogs the slightly longer, messy hair, the filled in muscles in his shoulders and arms, the way everything about him seems just a little bit different. His shirt and jeans are old and worn, but he looks like he's finally grown into them. There's even a little bit of stubble on his jaw.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, and Isaac is relieved to hear that his voice isn't any different than he remembers. Stiles' gaze flickers from Isaac, to Peter, then back.

“Holy shit,” he says again, and then he turns his head over his shoulder and yells into the loft, “Derek! Get your ass down here!”

Stiles' gaze is back on him seconds later, and he's looking at Isaac like he's making a mental checklist of everything about him that's different, but his expression of concentration and the scrutiny slowly melt into something else after a second. Stiles moves and then he's hugging Isaac, arms wrapped around him in what's almost a bear hug. He squeezes him once, tightly, and then Stiles holds him at arm's length, looking him over closely.

“What happened to you?” Stiles asks, gaze honing in on the dirt and grass stains on his jeans and the little spot of blood near the collar of his t-shirt that he couldn't get out. Isaac's eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he's about to open his mouth to respond when he sees Derek appear over Stiles' shoulder. He doesn't look any different, except maybe a little happier. Isaac is surprised to see the amount of laugh lines that have appeared, making the worry lines that crease his forehead look less severe.

He only gets to enjoy a happy-looking Derek for a moment, before the man's mouth is set in a hard line and he's approaching Isaac fast, practically shouldering Stiles out of the way. Isaac feels boneless as Derek pulls him into a hug even bigger than Stiles', unable to move or hug back, simply standing there in mild shock. He can feel Peter looking at him, and he knows the asshole is probably laughing in there.

“Where the hell have you been?” Derek asks, but he's still hugging Isaac, so the sound is somewhat muffled in his shoulder. He relaxes his grip and steps back a moment later, looking slightly alarmed at his own actions. Isaac is still processing both questions, and the unexpected presence of Stiles, and he's trying to work out an easy answer to both questions when he sees Derek look at Peter, eyes narrowing.

“Where's Peter?” It's Stiles that voices the question that Isaac is pretty sure was rolling through Derek's mind. Stiles is looking at Isaac, however, and this time they're both quiet, like they might actually let him answer a question.

“Um,” Isaac says. Derek looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Actually--”  
  
“Oh,” says Stiles, and now he's looking at Peter like he's seeing him for the first time. He says it again, “Oh.”

“Get inside,” Derek nods towards the loft, then turns and walks in, glancing between them both over his shoulder. He brushes shoulders with Stiles as he walks past, and Isaac sees for the first time the angry red mark on the side of Stiles' neck. Stiles seems to notice him looking and covers it with a palm, face red as he gestures after Derek.

Isaac can't help the grin that splits his face, and he follows Derek into the apartment, Peter following at his side. He hears Stiles follow them in and shut the door, but Isaac is momentarily distracted by the new set up. Nothing is particularly different, and yet everything is – the furniture has been updated, and reconfigured to fit the room better. There's also things everywhere that practically scream Stiles' name; a red hoodie draped over the back of a chair, a single sneaker by the door in a size that's too small to be Derek's, two beers on the coffee table, a set of keys on a table next to the door that have, among several charms and keys, a small howling wolf charm and a key to a Jeep.

Despite the situation that had brought them here, Isaac finds himself relaxing quickly, the familiar presence of his friends calming him. There was nothing that the old pack couldn't achieve when they worked together in the past, and Isaac still holds hope that they will be able to help now, that he and Peter will come out of this okay in the end.

Stiles comes into Isaac's line of sight and startles him out of his thoughts, which makes Stiles raise an eyebrow as Derek settles in on the couch and waves them over.

“Sorry,” Isaac says, following Stiles and taking a seat on the new couch across from Derek. Stiles finds his seat directly next to Derek, nearly in his lap, and Isaac can't help but notice the way they seem to really fit together now that they're both a bit older. He tries to explain, “It's just, everything's so different.”

Derek looks like he's going to say something, but he stops and glares when Peter gets on the couch next to Isaac, seemingly affronted that an animal – even one that is actually his uncle – would dare get on his upholstery. Peter lies down and rests his chin on Isaac's knee, looking at Derek as Derek looks back balefully.

“I like it,” Isaac tacks on, before the situation escalates. Then he adds, to try to change the subject, “You two look happy.”

His tactic works, apparently, because at the words 'you two', Derek and Stiles both freeze up a little. Derek looks only mildly embarrassed, but Stiles' cheeks are bright red. Still, they don't pull away from each other or try to cover it up like they would have a few years ago. It's refreshing to see. Isaac moves one of his hands to the scruff of Peter's neck, burying his fingers in the fur there, something that he's found to be a comfort to both of them over the past fifteen hours.

Stiles looks at Peter, then his gaze follows Isaac's arm up until he's looking him in the eye, and this time when he speaks, it's with a surprising amount of authority.

“What happened to you?” Stiles had always been harsh and demanding as a teenager, but maturity of a few years had added a confidence to his tone that had been missing before. Isaac takes a breath and lets it out slowly, glancing between Derek and Stiles as he tries to decide how much he wants to divulge.

“We were on our way to a meeting with another pack,” he says, ignoring the way they both seem to tense up at his words. He has to break it to them somehow that he and Peter have a pack of their own, now, and this seems like the best option available. “Two of our-- of Peter's betas pissed off this coven of witches, and they ambushed us. They completely wiped out the other pack, ours barely got away, and we...”

He trails off, looking at Peter, who sighs deeply under his hand. Stiles is looking at him studiously, like he's trying to solve a puzzle, and Derek is looking at Peter, possibly in shock.

“Peter was like this when we woke up,” Isaac finishes, unsure if he should mention his own curse, or whatever it was that the witches had done. It certainly felt like a curse, not being able to communicate with Peter past using expressions and guessing, most of the time. The alpha powers hadn't had any negative effects on him, but he was exhausted, and he had no pack except for Peter near, so it was hard to tell what had changed.

Stiles seems to see that Isaac isn't telling the whole of it, his scrutinizing stare only lasting a few seconds longer than necessary, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he gets up from his seat and wanders away to the table, grabs for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks first, turning his stare from Peter to Stiles as he fiddles with the device. Stiles doesn't look up from what he's doing, keeping his focus on the phone.

“Calling Deaton,” he answers, getting the number pulled up and hitting the call button.

“Wait,” Isaac says, and Derek looks at him like he's crazy. Stiles is still holding the phone to his ear, but he's listening. “Can it wait until morning? Please. I just drove fifteen hours, my pack is even further away, I'm exhausted, Peter's a wolf--”

Stiles hangs up the call and puts the phone down, coming back over when Isaac starts to suck in hysteric breaths. He's been keeping himself going all this time on the thought that he just needed to get to Beacon Hills and they would figure out what to do then, but the last fifteen hours are starting to catch up with him. He's thankful for Peter's fur, which hides the shake of his hands, both of them clutching at it now. Peter whines softly, and Stiles and Derek share a look, both of them startled and unsure and so concerned.

It's good to be home, Isaac thinks, and he feels a pang of guilt. He misses Washington, but Stiles and Derek are his people, his first pack, and he knows they're going to do what they can to help.

“Okay,” Stiles says in an effort to calm him, but Isaac knows he's crying, he can't help it. They almost died. He's an alpha. “But I'm calling him first thing in the morning. We need to find out exactly what they did to you, and hope there are no side effects we're not seeing yet.”

“Side effects?” Isaac lifts a shaking hand to angrily wipe the wetness from his cheeks, sniffling. He hates crying, especially in front of people, and crying in front of Stiles and Derek right after getting here is not giving them a great impression of how much Isaac has changed in the last three years.

“All magic has side effects,” Stiles says, and Isaac is surprised at how knowledgeable he sounds about it. “Some of them affect the caster, some of them effect the person under the spell. Just because Peter's stuck as a wolf doesn't mean that's the end of it; we have to make sure there's nothing going on beneath the surface.”

“Like what?” Derek asks, and his participation startles Isaac to look at him. The concern etched in the lines of Derek's face is beyond touching, and Isaac feels that sensation of being home again.

“Let's just call Deaton in the morning,” Stiles says, instead of answering Derek's question, and really that's an answer in it's own way. Derek sighs and stands, nods toward the stairs.

“You need to get some sleep.” It's Derek's way of saying he cares, Isaac knows, and he smiles and nods in agreement. Stiles yawns a huge yawn, arms stretching over his head, and Derek watches him. Isaac feels bad for intruding on their space without warning, for bringing his problems to them again, for always asking for so much. It must show on his face, because Derek says, “Hey. You're pack. You're family. You're always welcome here.”

It loosens the knot forming in Isaac's chest slightly, and he nods and swallows.

“Thank you, Derek,” he says, and he's proud of himself for keeping his voice steady as he speaks. Stiles flashes them a tired smile and jerks his thumb towards the stairs.

“I'm going to bed,” Stile announces, perhaps unnecessarily, but Isaac can tell it's supposed to hold a hidden message for Derek from the way he straightens up as Stiles turns and heads for the stairs with an added, “And Isaac? It's good to have you back. G'night.”

Derek watches him until he's out of sight, then turns his gaze back to Isaac and Peter. Peter huffs another sigh and looks at Derek. They stare each other down for a long minute before Derek laughs, really laughs, and shakes his head.

“I wish Talia could see you like this,” Derek says, and Peter's eyes flash as he bares his teeth. There's no real menace in the gesture, and it would make Isaac laugh, if the color of Peter's eyes hadn't made Derek's smile falter. His gaze flickers to Isaac, and it's inquisitive and piercing all at once. “I thought he was an alpha. You said he had betas.”

Isaac swallows thickly and nods, glancing at Peter, trying to decide if he wants to confide in Derek just yet. He knows he'll have to tell them eventually in order for them to help, but he's away from his pack and he's feeling vulnerable despite the warm hospitality of his friends, and his instincts – the alpha instincts – are telling him to be cautious with everyone.

“Yeah,” Isaac says after a moment, scratching Peter between his ears. Another trick that relaxes them both. “That was the other part of the spell. They took his alpha powers, and...”

He trails off and looks at Derek, eyes flashing red for a moment. Derek's own eyes widen sharply, and he looks between the two of them in surprise.

“They took his power and gave it to you? Why?” Derek asks, and Isaac shrugs.

“Probably because they knew I didn't want it,” he says bitterly, and Derek seems to understand, nodding. They're quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the companionable silence, before Derek speaks up again.

“C'mon, your old room is still a bedroom,” he stands and heads toward the stairs, and Isaac shoos Peter from his lap and they stand together. Isaac follows after Derek, and Peter brings up the rear. When they reach the top of the stairs, Derek waves goodnight and disappears into his room. Isaac catches a glimpse of Stiles passed out in the middle of the bed before Derek closes the door. Isaac and Peter share a look, and Isaac laughs before ducking into the room across the hall. The room has been updated, too, but he's surprised to see much of what he left is still here. The records and turn table that Peter had bought him are sitting in the corner, the bed has a frame, and the desk has been replaced with a smaller one that takes up less space.

It's a simple enough guest room, and Isaac realizes with undue surprise that this has really become a home since he's been gone.

Stiles and Derek's home. The thought is weird, and he's still turning it over in his head as he strips down to his boxers and climbs into the bed. He needs a shower, but his clothes are filthy, and he doesn't want to sleep in the same clothes he's been wearing for over twenty-four hours by this point. Isaac gets settled under the covers, and Peter hops onto the bed a few seconds later, settling in at Isaac's side immediately.

It's the first bed Isaac's seen in days, and he rolls onto his side to drape an arm over Peter, burying his face in the fur at the back of his neck.

“I promise I'm going to fix this,” Isaac whispers, and Peter whines softly and nuzzles Isaac's hand.

They fall asleep almost immediately.

 


	4. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a reunion is had, and everyone talks about witches. Also, Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four months in the making, and I finally got a chapter out. This one got away from me a little bit somewhere in the middle, and I had a lot of trouble each time I tried to come back to it. I finally got it hammered out, though.
> 
> Hopefully this satisfies some people.
> 
> Also, this is definitely not dead. I'm just busy and my writing muse is sadly fickle.

When Isaac wakes in the morning, the throbbing behind his eyes is gone, and his chest doesn't ache when he takes a deep breath. He'd almost think everything had returned to normal, except his arm is still curled around fur instead of human skin. Peter is awake and nosing at his hand, which draws Isaac out of his thoughts a little, and he listens to the loft around them, trying to get a feel for where Stiles and Derek are. He hears them downstairs after a minute, talking in low voices, probably trying not to wake him. Something smells like food. There's a third voice next to theirs, a female, which startles Isaac fully awake.

He throws the covers off and slips out of bed, moving across the room to the dresser, the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't changed. Still, he's surprised to find most of his old clothes are still folded neatly inside, and he pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt before rushing out of the room, waving to Peter to follow. Peter does follow, but Isaac isn't paying attention as he barrels down the spiral stairs. He's barely off of the stairs when the flash of golden hair catches him tightly around the middle, and he wraps his arms around Erica in the tightest hug he can manage.

“You asshole!” She yells into his shoulder, and he can hear in her voice that she's been crying, which only makes him squeeze her tighter, tears springing to his own eyes in response. Her arms are wrapped tightly around his back, but she lifts a hand long enough to hit him, her fist thumping into his shoulder. It hurts, and it startles a laugh out of him, and before he knows it he's laughing and crying, face buried in blonde curls. She hits him again in the same spot, but doesn't relinquish her grip. “You absolute dickhead! I hate you.”

“I missed you, too,” Isaac laughs, releasing her reluctantly when she pulls away to dab carefully at her eyes, blotting away wetness with the edge of her sleeve.

“Fuck off,” she snaps, but she's laughing, and she looks good. Healthy, happy, even more of a bombshell than she had been in high school. Age and maturity are going to look good on her, are already starting to. Isaac swipes his hands over his face, wiping away the tears that had spilled, but he's grinning widely at Erica as he does. She sniffs and gives him a glare with no heat behind it. Isaac hears Peter reach the bottom of the stairs behind him, and Erica's gaze drops from Isaac to Peter. She laughs again in surprise and Peter growls once.

“You poor bastard,” she says, red-painted lips curling into a smirk. “Let's be honest, you probably deserved it.”

Even Isaac can't help but laugh at that. The whole situation is mildly ridiculous if he lets himself think about it. Terrifying, yes, but also laughable.

Isaac glances around the room and finds Stiles and Derek sitting at the table over plates of food, talking quietly between themselves to give Isaac and Erica some privacy for their tearful reunion. Erica follows his gaze and he sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.

“How long have they...?” Isaac asks, not bothering to finish the question. Erica knows what he means, because she answers right away.

“As soon as Stiles turned eighteen,” she explains, grin widening as she looks back at him and Peter. “At least Derek had the decency to wait.”

Isaac's ears turn red from embarrassment, but Peter looks, if possible, smug. Erica seems to interpret the expression the same way, because she scoffs and reaches over to give Peter's ears a gentle scratch. He narrows his eyes at her but doesn't pull away.

“Yeah, I know, you're a regular werewolf Romeo,” she teases, and when Peter snaps playfully at her fingers, she flicks his nose. This startles a laugh out of Isaac, but Erica just struts away, returns to the table and her own plate of breakfast, which looks previously untouched. Either she had been waiting for him, or her nerves had turned her stomach off to the idea of food, but she picks at it heartily now. Isaac sits beside her and looks down when Stiles pushes a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast under his nose. It's simple, but it's fresh and homemade, and it smells amazing.

“Sleep well?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of eggs, and Isaac nods and dangles a piece of bacon over the edge of the table for Peter. Derek watches with barely contained amusement and points his fork at a fifth plate, sitting in the center of the table.

“We made him a plate,” he says, eyes sparkling, and Isaac is pretty sure Derek just wants to see Peter eat off the floor. His theory is proven when he gets up momentarily and brings the plate to the coffee table, the perfect elevation for Peter to eat from in his current state. Peter looks at the food for several long minutes and sighs deeply, then seems to swallow his pride and begins eating as delicately as he can in his current state. Derek's face falls slightly at this, and he goes back to stabbing at his eggs, but doesn't say anything else.

Erica is already halfway through her plate and seems to be inhaling more than she's tasting, but she pauses after a minute and puts her fork down before turning to face Isaac fully.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice is severe, and Isaac swallows a bite of toast and glances at both Stiles and Derek before answering.

“Washington,” he says softly after considering the answer for a moment. Erica seems to accept this answer, because she nods and taps her fingernails on the table. She jerks her chin at Peter.

“He's an alpha?” She asks, and Isaac shrugs at that.

“He's supposed to be,” is what he settles with, unsure of what Derek may have told her or Stiles. Isaac glances over his shoulder at Peter and can't help but sigh, feeling suddenly exhausted all over again, despite finally getting a full night's rest. Erica seems to accept this answer, as well, because she doesn't say anything else. She just pats Isaac's hand, a comforting gesture, before returning to devouring her food.

“I talked to Deaton,” Stiles says, bringing Isaac's attention back to the table. He takes another bite of his toast while Stiles takes another drink of his coffee. “He says he has to look into some things, but he'll call me back later today when he knows more. Is there anything else you can tell us about the coven that attacked you? Did you get any of their names?”

Isaac shakes his head, feeling unprepared, but also slightly alarmed at Stiles' readiness to take initiative on helping them. It's not something Isaac ever would have expected from Stiles a few years ago, and he thinks of it as further evidence that they've all grown up a little bit since he left. There's a lot of information missing that he desperately wants to be filled in on, but if Stiles is right about the magic used against them, they could have a time limit.

“No, nothing,” he sighs, shrugging weakly. Erica rubs a hand over his back in soothing circles, which actually helps calm him a little. “I think they're based out of Oregon, but that's really just a guess. It was northern California where they caught up with us.”

Stiles hums at this, considering something, then pulls out his phone and begins typing. “I'll cross-reference our list of known magicals on the coast to see if any are currently living in that area while I wait for Deaton to get back to me about the spells they used.”

Isaac must look confused or startled, or some combination of the two, because Derek sets his fork down and folds his hands on the table.

“Stiles has been working with Deaton for the last two years, training to be an emissary,” Derek explains, but it only answers about a third of Isaac's questions. He watches Stiles, deep in thought as he focuses on whatever he's got on his phone.

“An emissary?” Isaac asks, and Stiles looks up this time, attention drawn away from his phone.

“Yeah, you know all the druid-y shit that saved our asses so many times? Apparently I have a natural talent for it, or something. A few months before I turned eighteen, Deaton brought me some stuff to read about it, said he'd teach me if I wanted to learn,” Stiles shrugs, pushing his plate towards Derek, who has started to gather the other dishes. Everyone is done eating except for Isaac, so he makes quick work of the last of his food while Stiles continues, “He thinks my mom might have been something, and that's why I'm so good at the magical part of it.”

“So you're the emissary for Derek's pack?” Isaac asks, glancing at Erica. The three of them look awkward suddenly, all wearing varying degrees of embarrassed expressions, and Derek finishes gathering the plates in silence and heads to the kitchen. Isaac looks down when he feels Peter return to his side where he sits and leans heavily against Isaac's leg, and Isaac digs his finger into the thick fur at the back of his neck when Peter rests his chin on Isaac's knee.

“Derek...doesn't really have a pack, anymore,” Erica tells Isaac, not bothering to lower her tone. Derek would hear them, regardless. Isaac hears the water turn on in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes in the sink, and Stiles winces at the noise and sips his coffee, body tense.

“What? But you and Boyd--” Isaac starts, more than a little confused.

“Boyd and I joined Scott's pack,” Erica cuts him off, and she looks ashamed. Isaac finds it ironic, considering he had been the first to leave, and he hadn't really felt that bad about it. “After you left, everything kind of just...fell apart, here.”

Isaac's face must fall, because Erica looks even more guilty and waves a manicured hand at him.

“Not because of you,” she adds quickly, and Isaac can tell she means it. Erica presses on, “Mostly, we just kind of drifted apart. Boyd and I saw everyone at school more often than we got to really see Derek, because of our families and everything. Derek was distracted, anyway. He kept talking about making new betas, but he never did. We just...wanted to finish school, and have lives.”

Isaac understands, in a way. Derek was never the alpha he had hoped for, either. He had the right intentions, most of the time, but he had little patience and none of the necessary experience. Maybe he was never cut out for it, and he finally realized that himself. Scott wasn't necessarily a better leader, he lacked Derek's age and maturity – not that Derek was that far ahead of them – but he was fair and understanding where Derek wasn't.

“Scott's offered him a place in the pack,” Stiles says over the rim of his coffee mug. He looks torn, like he wants to talk about it but doesn't, probably because he doesn't want to upset Derek. “But he won't take it. Too damn prideful.”

Stiles adds the jab at the end in a mutter before sipping his coffee, expression bitter, and Isaac is surprised by how much of the Sheriff he can hear in that exclamation, see in that expression. It's just another indication that all of his friends have grown up while he was away. Isaac wonders in what subtle ways has _he_ changed in the time he had been away? He knows it's irrational, but he fears that he has somehow stayed the same while all of his friends had grown without him, forever the same cowardly teenager that had run away for a man twice his age.

“Where is Scott?” Isaac asks, startled out of his thoughts when Peter touches his cold nose to his hand, looking up at him with that unreadable gaze. Peter can probably sense the tension rolling off of him – he's pretty sure Erica can, too, because she's looking at him with her head tilted just so – and Isaac shows his appreciation for the distraction with a series of gentle scratches behind the wolf's ears.

“College,” Stiles answers, setting down his now-empty mug. “About an hour away. Lydia is in Connecticut, Allison is in France for a study abroad program, and Danny's in London with Jackson.”

Isaac feels...he isn't sure how he feels. Stiles' deadpan delivery doesn't help, but Isaac can tell he's kind of bitter about the fact that his friends are scattered across the globe at the moment. He wants to say something, to offer him some comfort, but Isaac left, too.

He decides it's not his place.

Instead, he turns to Erica and asks, “Where's Boyd?”  
  
She shrugs and polishes her nails on her leggings, flashing him a grin. “At work. I haven't told him you're back yet, I wanted to see you first.”

There's the Erica he remembers, and the familiarity is so strong that it startles a laugh out of him, and he keeps laughing for a minute, despite Erica and Stiles staring at him like he's lost his mind.

“Sorry,” he says when he manages to calm himself, still chuckling here and there between breaths. “I just...I really missed you guys.”

“Yeah, and who's fault is that?” Erica says with a sniff, but Isaac can see the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she turns her head away.

The water in the kitchen stops running and their conversation drops into a comfortable silence, in which Stiles returns to studying his phone and Erica kind of idly stares at Peter, face shifting through different micro expressions, none of which Isaac can interpret. Derek reemerges from the kitchen a few minutes later, and Isaac swears the creases in his forehead have gotten deeper in the time he's been gone, but he looks no worse for wear otherwise. He brings a fresh pot of coffee and extra cups, refilling Stiles' mug before pouring one for Erica and Isaac, each.

“Thanks, Der,” she says with a little wink, wrapping her fingers around the mug. She doesn't lift it to her lips, just cradles it in her hand and licks her lips at Derek. His scowl deepens, but Isaac sees a tinge of red creeping up Derek's neck before he turns on his heel with the pot and practically stalks back to the kitchen. She laughs at his retreating form and takes a careful sip of her coffee.

“Quit teasing him,” Stiles says without looking up, but he's smirking as he says it. Isaac opens his mouth to ask about the exchange, but he can't think of how to phrase the question, so he doesn't. Derek comes back right then, anyway, and he takes his seat next to Stiles, tension in his posture. Something is clearly going on here, but Isaac can't put his finger on what it is, and despite being an old friend, he feels like he's not entitled to pry into their business, no matter how curious he is.

He'll just ask Erica about it later.

Stiles elbows Derek in the ribs to get his attention, thrusting his phone into the alpha's face. Derek reads for a moment, nodding in agreement to a question or a statement that was never spoken aloud. It's apparently enough, because Stiles turns his phone around to show Isaac this time.  
  
“Think this could be your coven?” He asks, and Isaac isn't actually sure what he's looking at, at first. There's a drawing of a symbol on the small screen, and several lines of what he thinks are Latin beneath it, and beneath _that_ are several lines of English that appear to be some kind of footnote or annotation.  
  
“'The Jones Coven - derived from the name of Margaret Jones, Puritan midwife executed for witchcraft in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1648 – is a coven traditionally comprised of fifteen members, thirteen women and two men,'” Isaac reads aloud, then looks up at Stiles and shrugs. “I didn't see how many there were.”  
  
“Unhelpful,” Stiles sighs. He takes the phone back and continues reading where Isaac left off, “'In recent years, the coven has since relocated from it's long-time home of Windsor, Connecticut – home of Alse Young, also executed for witchcraft in 1647, just a year before Jones – to the opposite coast. The Jones Coven currently resides in Salem, Oregon. Many past and current members of the Jones Coven have claimed to be descendants of Sarah Good, Ann Pudeator, Alse Young, and Margaret Jones, all of whom were hanged during the Salem Witch Trials for their supposed crimes.'”

Erica snorts and tosses her hair, gold curls bouncing against her back in a way that's almost mesmerizing.  
  
“Yeah, because that's not in poor taste or anything,” she laughs, quirking an eyebrow at the phone in Stiles' hand. “Wasn't Salem, Oregon named for Salem, Massachusetts? Why go somewhere named after where your ancestors were killed?”  
  
“It is a little odd,” Derek agrees over the rim of his coffee mug, shrugging one shoulder as he takes a sip. “But there's probably no connection.”  
  
“Maybe they needed a change of scenery,” Isaac says, although something about the information doesn't strike him as being quite right. He can't put his finger on it, though, and the more he thinks about it, the more it escapes him as to just what about it is bothering him. It's like trying to hold smoke, so he lets it go, figuring it isn't worth the mental strain.  
  
“Maybe,” Stiles agrees, but the line of his mouth and the set of his brows as he considers his phone screen tells Isaac that his friend is having a hard time connecting the dots, as well. “We have nothing else to go on for now, but I'll send this to Deaton and keep looking. In the meantime--”

He stops as his phone begins to vibrate in his hand, a soft yet persistent jingle alerting everyone to the call coming through.

“Is that Deaton?” Isaac asks, eager for answers, for solutions, for some sense of normality. Peter lays his head on Isaac's knee, and he strokes the fur between the wolf's ears, drawing some minor comfort from it.

“No,” Stiles says, voice odd, but then he's holding the phone up to his ear and speaking into it, “Hey, Lydia.”  
  
Isaac watches as Erica's eyebrows nearly shoot into her hairline, but her expression smooths into one of cool indifference a moment later, gaze wandering back to Peter.

A moment later Stiles says, “Sure, hold on a second.”  
  
He pulls the phone away from his ear and hits a button, putting the call on speaker, then sets it in the center of the table.  
  
“Okay,” he says to the gentle crackle of static from the other end, “Go ahead, Lyds.”  
  
“Isaac?” Lydia asks, voice ever unchanged, and Isaac looks at the phone, slightly alarmed.

“Hey,” he says, officially lost for words, and then looking at Stiles, “How did you know I was here?”

Stiles holds his hands up in a defensive gesture and shakes his head, eyebrows high as he mouths the words, 'Not me,' across the table. Isaac turns his gaze on Derek, who simply shrugs again and shakes his head, busying himself with another sip of his coffee.

“I'll explain later,” Lydia says, sounding perpetually impatient in the way only Lydia can. It's something that Isaac used to find annoying, but after years apart, it's almost endearing. “Is Peter there, too?”  
  
Isaac looks down at his lap, where Peter looks...bored? Tired? Intrigued? He can't tell, and it's starting to drive him a little crazy.

“Uh,” is all he can manage. Lydia sighs, and Isaac thinks it's a little sad that he even missed the sound of her exasperation.

“I know he's _there_ , but is he there _right now_? Can he hear me?” She's beginning to sound more urgent, like she's pressed for time, and Isaac's head is reeling.

“Yeah,” he says, and then again, “Yeah, he's here. Lydia, what's going on?”  
  
She's quiet for a long time. Just when Isaac begins to think that the call has dropped, or that she's changed her mind about whatever it is she called for in the first place, she speaks up again.

“Look, I don't have a lot of time right now, I have to get to class,” she definitely sounds distracted, and Isaac isn't sure that school fully accounts for it, but if she's rushed he doesn't want to press her. “Just...keep an eye on him. I can't explain it, but I think something bad is going to happen. I'll call again tonight.”  
  
And then the line has gone dead. They all stare at the phone for a while before Isaac laughs, a singular bark of semi-hysterical laughter. He drags a hand over his face, grimacing, but not before he sees the worried look Erica shoots him.

“Well,” Stiles says after he's collected his phone, and Isaac drops his hand to look across the table at his friend, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Can't wait to hear what _that_ was all about. Anyway, like I was saying before, I'm going to forward this info on the coven to Deaton and see what he thinks. In the meantime, you two should probably stay here.”  
  
“I agree,” Derek says immediately, setting his mug down and looking at Peter with renewed suspicion, something that Isaac definitely _didn't_ miss. Erica reaches over and gives Isaac's knee – the one Peter isn't resting his chin on – a small squeeze of reassurance.

“I can stay here today,” she offers, looking at Stiles and Derek when she says it. It gives Isaac the impression of being under house arrest, but he guesses he can't really complain; he did come to them for help, after all. “I know you guys have to get to work.”

“Thanks,” Derek nods, and he looks grim, like the word pains him to say. Or, more likely, that leaving his ex-beta and previously deranged, murderous uncle – currently a wolf – alone in his apartment for several hours isn't ideal. Isaac can't even hold that one against him, if he really thinks about it, and he's grateful for the offer of company that he can actually communicate with.

Erica, Isaac, and Peter eventually migrate to the couch while Derek and Stiles finish preparing for the day, and by the time they're gone, Peter has fallen asleep with his head fully cradled in Isaac's lap.

“So,” Erica says, face twisting into an almost disturbingly gleeful expression as soon as the door slides shut behind Stiles, who is the last to leave. “Tell me about Washington. And I swear to god, Lahey, if you leave anything out, I'll skin you and make you into a handbag.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaret Jones, Alse Young, Sarah Good, and Ann Pudeator were all real women convicted of witchcraft in the 1600's.
> 
> Their decedents mentioned here are fabricated for use in this work of fiction and are in no way intended to represent real people.
> 
> During the Salem witch trials, thirteen women and two men were convicted and executed in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
> 
> For more information about these women, see below:
> 
>  
> 
> [Margaret Jones ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_Jones_\(Puritan_midwife\))
> 
>  
> 
> [Alse Young](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alse_Young)
> 
>  
> 
> [Sarah Good ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Good)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ann Pudeator ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Pudeator)


	5. Connecticut, Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lydia has unsettling dreams and unwanted feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude from Lydia's perspective.

_Connecticut, Wednesday_

The dream starts out the same way every night – she's walking in the woods somewhere unfamiliar, leaves crunching beneath her feet, black dirt working it's way up between her bare toes. It's dark, so dark it's almost impossible to see anything around her, and the light of the full moon filtering through the canopy of trees overhead is too scarce to provide any real illumination.

A twig snaps behind her and she turns quickly, squinting into the shadows, but it's impossible to see who – or what – is there. She thinks she sees something move off to the right, a glint of eyes shining in the darkness, red and blue, and then they're gone. Carefully and slowly, she moves toward them, one hand outstretched. The bark of a tree scrapes her palm, cuts her deep, and when she lifts her hand into a beam of moonlight, it's covered in blood.

Something breathes hot, wet breath on the back of her neck, and she turns again, skin pebbled in gooseflesh, but just as before, there's nothing there.

An animal growls behind her, and she closes her eyes.

When she opens them, the moonlight is brighter, enough to illuminate the forest floor littered with bodies, dozens of dead eyes all fixed on her. She stumbles backward, heels connecting with something soft, and she trips, scrambling against the leaves and the dirt to distance herself from the body she's just fallen over.

This one she recognizes, and then all of the previously unfamiliar faces change, morphing into the faces of her friends.

They look at her, staring blankly, some covered in blood and others twisted into unnatural shapes.

She hears a rattling breath and looks down at her feet, at the body she fell over. It – Peter – lifts a hand toward her.

“Help,” he rasps.

Lydia screams--  
  
  
  


\--and wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright, cold sweat pasting her hair to her face and the back of her neck, hands shaking.

A glance around the room tells her that she's safe, still in her apartment in New Haven; the clock reads 2:47AM. She lets out a breath and drops her hands to her lap – there's no scrape on her palms, no blood there, just the clammy sweat that's a result of the reoccurring dream. It's been the same thing every night for the last two weeks, her friends lying dead on the forest floor, the feeling of being watched from the shadows by some faceless, nameless thing.

With a sigh, she throws back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed, standing on shaking legs. To say that the dream unsettles her would be an understatement, the reoccurring nature of it has created a pit of cold anxiety in her chest that she can't shake even upon waking. She's losing more and more sleep because of it, and she's long-since lost her appetite. The only thing she hasn't let slide so far has been her school work, but she can feel herself starting to lose her grip on her studies, too.

The wood floor is cool beneath her feet, and the sensation helps wake her as she pads softly into the kitchen. She focuses on the transition from wood to tile, reminding herself again that she's safe, not in the forest. Lydia curls her toes around the edge of a tile as she fills the lavender enamel tea kettle that Allison bought her for her last birthday and sets it on the stove. She turns the knob for the burner and listens to the igniter click for a few seconds before the flame comes to life. The clock in the center of the oven control panel tells her that it's now 2:50 AM, and she finds herself grateful that her classes today don't start until after noon. Homework will have to wait until she's had a very long nap, but for now she needs something – anything – to take her mind off of the dream.

Lydia returns to her room while she waits for the kettle, taking her phone off the charger on her bedside table and checking for any messages that may have come in after she fell asleep. There's only one - from Danny, who had been out late partying – so she doesn't bother with a reply. Instead she opens Skype on her way back to the kitchen and calls the first person on her contact list. There's no reply the first time, which is fine because the tea kettle begins to whistle while the call rings, so she hangs up and deals with that instead. She picks a tea – lavender and chamomile – and makes a cup, then picks her phone up and tries again.

This time there's an answer, and she hears fumbling before the video loads. Allison's hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, a few loose strands plastered to her face with sweat, and the warm morning sunlight of Paris would make her look radiant if her eyebrows weren't already knitted together in concern. It looks like Lydia's caught her in the middle of a run, so she's about to apologize and hang up when Allison starts talking.

“Lyds? It's almost three in the morning, what are you doing up?”  
  
If she weren't so tired, the worry in the woman's tone might have made Lydia feel better, but the question draws a weary sigh out of her.  
  
“I had the dream again,” she explains, and Allison's concerned expression takes on a hint of sympathy.  
  
“Was it the same?” Allison asks. Lydia had called her the first time she had it, and a few more times since, but she couldn't bring herself to call every night. Even though Allison had assured her it was more than fine, that Lydia could call her whenever she needed to, she still felt bad for interrupting her friend's schedule with unplanned phone calls first thing in the morning.

“Yeah,” Lydia sighs, fingers toying with the hem of her over-sized sleep shirt. She knows she probably looks terrible, dark circles under her eyes and hair a tangled mess, and her voice shakes when she says, “I'm so tired, Allie.”  
  
“I know. I'm so sorry, Lydia,” she says, because they both know there's nothing she can do to help. And then, in an effort Lydia knows is meant to distract her, Allison asks, “Did you get the stuff I sent you?”  
  
By 'stuff,' she means carefully constructed care package, including some delicious French pastries, a variety of cosmetics, haircare, and skincare products, and a book on quantum physics – in French – all along with a copy of her family's updated bestiary and notes from several of the Argent's family friends about banshees.

“Yes,” Lydia's startled, because she realizes just then that she never told Allison when the package arrived. She'd only eaten one of the pastries. “On Tuesday. I'm sorry, I forgot to thank you.”  
  
“No, it's okay! You've had a lot on your mind,” Allison smiles, and Lydia misses her so much in that moment that she almost wants to cry. Lydia had been the first to leave for college, and she hadn't been gone a week before she had started to miss her best friend terribly. They keep in regular contact, but the almost-daily talks somehow make it worse. “I'm glad you called. You know you can call me any time you need to, right?”  
  
Lydia tips her head back and rolls it onto one shoulder, sighing at her friend. “Yeah, I know. I just feel bad for bothering you with this.”  
  
“Well, don't. You're my friend, that's what friends are for.”  
  
“I should go back to bed,” Lydia says, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. It's not that Allison is overbearing, but without her around Lydia doesn't get that kind of unconditional support from anyone else, and it's jarring to hear it from her even while she's halfway across the globe. “Have a good day, tell your dad hi for me.”  
  
Allison smiles again, and Lydia manages a small smile back. “I will. And, hey.”  
  
Lydia makes a soft questioning noise.  
  
“I love you, Lyds. I'm sorry I can't help,” and she really does look sorry. Allison licks her lips and drags the back of her hand over her forehead, wiping away the sweat that's gathered there, and Lydia wants to hug her.

“It's fine. I love you too, Allie,” Lydia's smile is a little more genuine now. “Have a good day.”

She ends the call without waiting for Allison to say anything else, then takes her tea and a pastry to her living room. Her laptop is sitting on the coffee table, a small pile of textbooks beside it, and on the very top are the notes and bestiary from Allison. Lydia sits down and picks them up, flipping through the bestiary first, not really looking for anything in particular. Her powers – a banshee, they had told her, like that was a perfectly normal thing, or like werewolves or kanima were _normal things_ – had just started to manifest before she left Beacon Hills, so she had started researching. It was slow-going at first, working by herself with little to go off of. Peter had taught her some while he had been recovering from his near-death at the hands of the alpha pack, but after he and Isaac ran away together, he had stopped appearing in her dreams.

Until this new dream started, that is.

Nothing in the bestiary catches her eye, although she isn't sure quite what she expected, so she begins to read the notes on banshees from the collective network of hunters and experts the Argents maintain. There's several pages a piece from at least twelve different people, although from what she can tell from skimming, much of the information is repeated in every person's notes.

She sips her tea, eats her pastry, and reads.

Several pages in, she lays her head back against the couch and allows herself to close her eyes, breathing deeply for what was only supposed to be a few moments. She must have fallen asleep, because when she opens her eyes again there's light filtering in through the windows. Lydia is curled up in a ball on the couch with the throw blanket she usually drapes over the back of the couch pulled down over her, and one arm curled under her head as a make-shift pillow. It takes her a moment to uncurl, limbs stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position – her neck protests heavy, as well as her shoulder, elbow, and hip – and to find her phone, which is under the cushion. The time reads 8:03AM, which means she got just under five hours of sleep, and the realization makes her want to crawl into bed and sleep for another three-and-a-half.

If she dreamed about anything, she doesn't remember it now, which is a relief. She stretches out over the cushions of the couch, leaning her head back against the armrest, and calls Allison again. There's no answer, but it's the middle of the day in Paris, so she doesn't try again. Allison is probably in class or at work, and either way, Lydia feels bad enough bothering her in the mornings much less bothering her while she's trying to be a productive member of Parisian society. She sends her friend a text instead, opening their conversation thread and typing out a quick message.  
  


_Thanks again for the reading material. Very interesting, especially the notes about the Salem witch trials. Not sure what the connection is to banshees? but still good._  
  


Lydia hit send and closes the app, then sits up and swings her legs off of the couch. Her body is sore and tired, and her mind is foggy, and she just wants to go back to sleep, but she makes herself stand and shuffles stiffly into the kitchen, bringing her half-finished tea from earlier that morning. She dumps the cold tea into the sink and tosses the teabag, then rinses and cleans the cup and sets it aside. The coffee maker is already set to brew – something she's started doing at night since she started college, so she has less to do in the morning – so she hits the button and leaves the kitchen.

She grabs a towel from the hall closet and gets in the shower, hurrying through everything. She cuts herself three times while she's shaving, and the blood trickling down her legs and onto the shower floor reminds her of the dream, so she hurries faster. Once she's out, wrapped in a towel and using another to blot her hair dry one-handed, she checks her phone again to find a reply from Allison.  
  


_In class, sorry. Also, what? There's a page or two in the bestiary about witches, but there was nothing about the Salem witch trials in the notes._  
  


Lydia frowns; she distinctly remembers reading several pages of notes on the subject before she fell asleep, but suddenly everything feels slightly off. She leaves the bathroom and walks down the hall to the living room, to do what, she isn't sure. Send Allison a picture of the pages she means, maybe, or prove to herself that they were real, more likely. The pile of notes is lying on the floor where she dropped it when she fell asleep, and she picks them up and flips through each page, skimming it thoroughly for any mention of the Salem witch trials, or of witches, or of Salem.

Allison is right. There's nothing.

Lydia sits on the couch, puts the papers on the coffee table, and keeps drying her hair. She must have dreamed it, which is obviously not outside the realm of possibilities, but...

Something still feels wrong.

She returns to her room and dresses, then pours herself a cup of coffee and takes a seat on the couch, opening her laptop and looking at her textbooks. Her homework can wait for another hour, probably. What she really needs to do is write down what she remembers of the notes from her dream, before she forgets.

She opens a new word document and begins to type.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to these playlists while writing this:
> 
> http://8tracks.com/hopedieslast/destiny  
> http://8tracks.com/hircine/re-witchcraft  
> http://8tracks.com/someoneelsessocks/hush-little-baby  
> http://8tracks.com/arcade-gannon/he-comes-in-the-night  
> http://8tracks.com/arcade-gannon/e-so-ter-ic
> 
> I also listened to Fleetwood Mac's album, "Rumors," three times in it's entirety. You know, in case you were curious.


	6. London, Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Danny has a hangover, and an unwanted visitor follows Jackson home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude, this one from Danny’s perspective.
> 
> I've been looking forward to finishing this chapter. I lost my computer a few months ago, so I lost what I had of this and had to start over on my phone, therefore it took me a lot longer than it should have.
> 
> Thank you for waiting.

London, Wednesday

Danny feels like he got hit by a truck.

The feeling is not wholly unfamiliar, if he's being honest with himself. Last night was not the first - nor will it be the last - time he's had a bit too much to drink. It seems to be happening a lot more than usual lately, too. Although that could have something to do with him crashing on Jackson's couch in London for the last six months, and his decreasing desire to go back home, and the spiral of alcohol and late nights clubbing that this has led him into.

Maybe it's a little too early for that much honesty.

He shoves the thought aside, with very little intention of coming back to it. Without opening his eyes, he takes a mental survey of his body. Arms, hands, and fingers? Check. Legs, feet, and toes? Check. Dry mouth that tastes like stale vodka and throbbing hangover migraine? Check and check. He's on the couch, if the cushions beside and beneath him are any indication, which is better than the bathtub where he woke up the last time he stayed out too late.

His eyelashes stick to his cheeks briefly when he opens his eyes - okay, gross - and finds that thankfully, blessedly, the blackout curtains in the living room have been tugged closed. Dull, gray sunlight is still trying to slip in around the edges, but it only hurts when he looks directly at it, so he squints to shield his corneas from the offending rays. Rolling onto his side makes the room lurch unnaturally, so he closes his eyes tightly and fights the wave of nausea down until the world around him stops moving again. When he opens his eyes again his vision is blurred, and the first thing that comes into focus is a glass of water and a pair of aspirin on the coffee table in front of him. Without moving his head, he glances down and sees the small trash can from the bathroom sitting beneath the edge of the table, lined with several plastic shopping bags. Danny throws an arm out and catches the edge of the can with his fingertips, unconcerned when it tips over and nothing spills out.

At least he hadn't vomited, then.

He doesn't see his phone anywhere though, and since sitting up is out of the question, he lazily thrusts a hand under his body and searches the cushions inch by slow, uncoordinated inch. After what feels like a solid minute, his fingers brush the corner of the device, wedged between the seat cushions and under his left hip. He manages to extract it by pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and lifting his hip slightly, and is surprised to see that it somehow still has a small amount of battery life, the display at the top reading 10% with only a small sliver of red. Beside it, the time reads 2:34 PM, and Danny groans slightly at the clock.

He twists onto his back, keeping his eyes closed as he does to prevent the nausea from returning, then holds his phone against his chest and tucks his chin down, squinting as his post-drunk fingers fumble against the screen. With some difficulty, he opens his conversation with Lydia, where he had used the last ounces of his coherent thought the night before.

 _I'm alive_ , he types, and then after some thought he adds, _unfortunately_ , and hits send.

Bits and pieces of the night before come back to him as he lays there, checking for any missed messages. There aren't any, which is a slight relief, seeing as he's still having a hard time focusing on his screen when Lydia’s reply comes through.

_Congratulations on your continued survival. Do anything crazy last night?_

He considers this question for longer than necessary, trying to put the order of last night's events right in his head. ‘Crazy’ isn't exactly the adjective he'd use, when he really starts to remember. ‘Stupid,’ maybe, or ‘humiliating.’ He had dragged Jackson out with him to a couple of clubs, and despite his half-hearted protests and heavy class schedule, Jackson had stayed with him the whole night until they'd stumbled in well after three in the morning.

Danny’s memory of the worst part of last night is still, unfortunately, in tact.

 _I think I kissed Jackson_ , he types with feigned uncertainty.

He _knows_ he kissed Jackson, which isn't the biggest deal when he knows he had more than enough vodka to hide behind, but he can't seem to recall how Jackson had reacted to the advance. What's worse is that it's not the first time he's gotten a little too drunk and tried to make a move on his best friend, although Jackson has always been a good sport about it. That is if ‘being a good sport’ means Jackson not talking about it at all and avoiding eye contact with Danny for half a day afterward.

His phone buzzes in his hand and the screen lights up with Lydia’s response, _You mean you know you did. You've got to quit doing this to yourself._

It's not the first time he's told Lydia about this particular drunken antic, either. He's told her every time it's happened since the first, just a month after he'd first come to London. Danny had finished his degree a year early, and instead of going for a second immediately after like he had planned, he decided to take a year off. Jackson had moved out of his parents’ place in London and into an upscale flat of his own - still paid for by his family but a play at real independence while he’s taking a full course load at university - and extended the invitation to Danny to stay with him for a month. One month turned into two, into three...and now on month six, he's starting to weigh the pros and cons of waiting out the rest of his year off sleeping on Jackson's couch.

Pro: Spending time with his childhood best friend.

Con: Spending time with his childhood best friend, whom he's definitely been feeling more than friendly towards in the past few months.

Lydia is the only person he can talk to about it, and she's probably the leading expert on all things Jackson, even now. She and Jackson stayed in contact when he left Beacon Hills, and with Lydia’s intimate knowledge of werewolves and the supernatural - as well as her once powerful but now static mental connection to Peter - she's been helpful to him more than once with various things regarding the change from Kanima to real wolf. Between Danny, Lydia, and Jackson, the three have had hundreds of in-depth discussions about the supernatural happenings of Beacon Hills and their new locales, never exhausting their thirst for knowledge about this unique aspect of their daily lives. Lydia has mentioned to Danny in the past how much Jackson has changed since he moved away, but Danny’s still pretty sure his best friend isn't into him. Guys, maybe -  because Danny’s seen the way Jackson looks at some of the dudes in the clubs they go to - but ones that aren't _Danny_. Guys he didn't grow up with, ones that are sexy, and European. They haven't talked about it, mostly because Danny isn't quite sure there's anything to talk about, and he figures it's up to Jackson to start that conversation anyway.

Lydia interrupts his train of thought and his half-finished reply with another text of her own. _Maybe it's time to call it quits on London, come back stateside. You can crash my couch for a couple months, we'll go shopping in NYC when I'm done with finals._

He wants to, really he does, but the thought of leaving Jackson makes his stomach do flips, a sure sign that it's time to make a break for it. Spending some time with Lydia wouldn't be a terrible idea either, if her daily recollections of her nightly terrors are anywhere near accurate. He knows she hasn't been sleeping well, at any rate, and with finals quickly approaching and her strange recurring dreams, she could use the support.

 _How did you sleep?_ He asks, already fairly certain he knows the answer won't be ‘well.’

A distant clap of thunder rolls outside and Danny considers going back to sleep until his head is clear enough to have this discussion. The sound of gentle rain patter starts against the window panes, the thunder growing louder and rattling them in their frames and making his eyelids droop. He must drift for a while - a few minutes at least - because when he wakes again the living room is significantly darker from the late afternoon storm overhead. A key in the lock of the front door signals Jackson's return from class a split second before the door opens and the man sweeps into the apartment, water dripping from his hair and clothes.

“It's raining,” Danny tells him, just to be an ass, and he's not surprised to hear his voice is hoarse from last night's heavy drinking. Jackson laughs once quietly as he kicks off his shoes and then reaches up to peel his shirt off, unintentionally giving his friend a show as the wet material clings to his chest and back. Danny tries not to look too interested by fumbling with his phone when Jackson looks his way again. “What happened to your umbrella?”

“Gave it to a girl on the train this morning,” Jackson explains, taking his wet shirt down the hall and into the bath. He emerges a moment later, scrubbing water from his hair, face, and neck with a fluffy red towel.

“Did you get her number in exchange?” Danny teases, but the thought makes his stomach flip. Jackson can get girls’ numbers on the train, as many as he wants. He's entitled to that. It's none of Danny’s business. Danny silently repeats this mantra to himself over and over, but it does nothing to quell his nausea. Jackson snorts derisively and casts a sideways glance at Danny as he enters the kitchen, but he gives no other reply until he's out of sight.

“No, but she tried to get mine. Said she wanted to ‘return my kindness.’ I told her I'd just buy a new one. Hey, have you eaten anything yet?”

Danny looks at the aspirin sitting next to the glass of water on the coffee table and pushes himself into something that closer resembles a proper sitting position. His legs stretched across the cushions and head hanging backward over the arm of the couch, he feels no less dizzy than before. His vision swims as his stomach turns, and he closes his eyes against the sensation.

“No,” Danny answers weakly, and then because he's not ready to drop it he asks, “Wait, a girl hit on you and you turned her down? What, was she not your type?”

The only sounds from the kitchen for a few moments after are the drip of the coffee maker and the quiet sizzle of butter in a hot pan. When Jackson speaks again, he sounds troubled, like the thought had been weighing on his mind the whole way home, “No...I don't know. She seemed familiar. Like I saw her in a dream, or something.”

“You must have seen her before. She probably takes that train a lot. You know you can't dream of a face you've never seen before?” Danny says. He's talked with Lydia extensively on this subject, and they've reached the shared conclusion that this doesn't necessarily apply to people with superhuman abilities, like her and Jackson, and their friends back home in California.

“Maybe,” Jackson says, but he doesn't sound convinced. He also doesn't say anything else on the subject, so Danny takes the opportunity that his friend’s silence provides to pluck the aspirin tablets from the table and swallow them, chasing the pills with a few large gulps of water. The addition of water and medicine to his stomach makes the churning lessen, which is a huge relief because whatever Jackson is cooking smells amazing.

Danny glances at his phone - **5% battery** , it tells him at the top, **please connect to charger** \- and sees that Lydia dodged the sleep question, or she's busy with something else, because there's no reply.

The speaker panel in the wall beside the door buzzes, someone requesting that Jackson let them into the building. Jackson leans out of the kitchen and looks between Danny and the door, brows furrowed.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Maybe one of your neighbors forgot their keys again?” Danny suggests. He heaves himself up from the couch, sways in place for a moment, then meets Jackson at the door. They stare at the small screen which shows a black and white video feed of the front steps and the girl standing there, partially obscured by a black umbrella. Danny feels Jackson take a deep breath beside him and turns to look at his friend.

“Is that the girl from the train?” Danny asks, and Jackson nods, still staring. “I guess she followed you home.”

“I guess,” Jackson parrots, but he sounds less than pleased by the idea.

“It's kind of weird,” Danny says.

“Yeah,” Jackson squints in suspicion at the screen for a moment longer before peeling himself away and moving back toward the kitchen. The speaker buzzes again.

“Are you going to let her in?” Danny’s phone vibrates in his hand.

“No way, something isn't right about her.”

Danny’s phone vibrates again, in sync with the buzzing of the door bell. Lydia is calling him - his phone flashes a warning: **shutting down soon, please plug in or find another power source** \- so he lifts the phone to his ear, the thumb of his other hand hovering over the button to unlock the door.

“Hey Lyds, can I call you back? My phone’s about to die and there's this girl outside--”

Lydia says something but he doesn't quite catch it. The girl is staring into the camera like she's looking at Danny, watching him watch her.

“Leave it alone, Danny. Maybe she'll get bored and leave,” Jackson says from the kitchen, but he sounds further away than he is.

“I could just go down and meet her,” Danny hears himself say. He touches the button to unlock the door with his thumb but doesn't press it.

 _“Danny,”_ Lydia says through the phone. _“Do_ not _open that door.”_

Jackson's hand wraps around Danny’s and pulls it away from the panel, and Danny feels a hand on his jaw, turning his gaze away from the screen and the girl. He stares at Jackson who stares back with eyebrows furrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What…” Danny tries to look at the screen again, but Jackson's grip on his chin keeps him still. “What was that?”

Jackson's phone rings before he can reply, and he breaks his hold - but not his gaze - on Danny’s face to pull the phone from his pocket.

“Lydia,” Jackson says as he puts the call on speaker, and Danny realizes his own phone is dead. He slowly lowers it from his ear and drops his hand to his side. He's vaguely aware of Jackson still holding his other hand.

 _“Danny?”_ Lydia sounds worried.

“Yeah, I'm here. I'm good,” he reassures his friends and himself. He asks again, “What was that?”

 _“I'm not sure,”_ Lydia says. _“Jackson, is she still out there?”_

Danny and Jackson turn to look at the screen in tandem. The girl is gone, leaving no evidence that she was ever there.

“No, she's gone,” Jackson replies. “What the hell did she want?”

 _“Nothing good,”_ Lydia sounds tired now, the crackle of static making her sigh sound harsh.

“Um,” Danny interrupts, “Sorry, but did she just mind-control me?”

Jackson looks at him again and Danny looks back in silence, wondering with a sinking feeling what would have happened if he had let the woman with the umbrella inside.

“Yeah,” Jackson says finally. His hand is warm around Danny’s still, grip gentle, and Jackson seems to realize because he lets go suddenly and tucks his hand into the pocket of his jeans.

 _“You two be careful,”_ Lydia warns, _“Keep an eye on each other. I'll call you later.”_

The call ends.

Jackson looks away from Danny, first at the phone in his hand and then at the screen on the wall, deliberately avoiding his friend's gaze. Danny swallows once and thinks of the girl on the steps.

“Jax,” Danny whispers, feeling his heart jump into his throat. Jackson's head whips round and he looks at Danny with concern. “What if she comes back?”

“Hey,” Jackson shifts awkwardly, lifts a hand to touch Danny’s shoulder but rethinks it and drops his arm. “She's just some freak. Don't worry about it.”

Jackson returns to the kitchen and Danny walks to the couch on numb legs. He fumbles with the phone charger on the floor for a minute before getting his phone plugged in. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

The memory of the black umbrella and the girl’s face fills his mind and makes his stomach turn. He grabs the trash can from the floor and empties his stomach into it, heaving until there's nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more soon. I'm moving in about a month and a half, and I still have no computer, so updates will be much slower. Don't panic, I'm still here. This is a labor of love for me.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
> I listened to these a lot while writing this:
> 
>  
> 
> <http://8tracks.com/thebryonysea/bitchcraft>  
> <http://8tracks.com/lanadelcreys/these-streets-are-yours>  
> [ https://open.spotify.com/user/spotify/playlist/6jOKJ9uMXxnGM9Bh3rujY3](https://open.spotify.com/user/spotify/playlist/6jOKJ9uMXxnGM9Bh3rujY3)


	7. California, Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek and Isaac have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...four months later, I finished moving. Life has been hectic, to say the least. Also, I'm still writing on my phone, so things are slow-going.
> 
> In other news, this chapter clocks at 5,181 words, which I believe is the longest chapter in the history of this fic and it's predecessor. I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Enjoy.

With no pack and no looming threat of danger, Derek got a job to fill his free time.

Around the time that Deaton approached Stiles with the offer to teach him, he also offered Derek a position at the animal clinic. When Scott left for college, Deaton was left short-handed, he said, and so he hired Derek.

Derek had been surprised to find that the work was easy and that he actually enjoyed it. Working with animals was calming, but being able to use his powers to help ease their pain was what really mattered to him. In a way, it helped him too. After everything - the fire that took his family; Peter, who took Laura; Laura, who had been his best friend; his pack, too broken to become the family he had wanted so badly - Derek had a lot bottled up. Working with Deaton, helping those animals, and being with Stiles all helped loosen the cork.

Things were actually getting better. It didn't hurt as much.

Now his uncle - who is number one on the list of people who have hurt Derek too many times to be trusted - is a wolf and is back in Beacon Hills, and Isaac is with him. Not that Derek isn't willing to help, because he is - he wants to help, if only to get them out of his loft - but it isn't exactly making his life easier. Things had calmed down in Beacon Hills, but this situation is sure to stir some shit.

Frankly, Derek is tired and he wants a break.

He stayed late at work today, told Deaton he could finish up feeding the animals so the doctor could go home. Deaton said he has some things to check on for Stiles, then dinner with someone who might be able to help, and that he’ll drop by the loft after to check on Peter and Isaac personally. Derek thanked him for his willingness to help, because he's getting better at this people stuff.

All of the animals like him, now. The cats were the real struggle at first, but they got used to him and at the very least they tolerate him. A few of the cats really do like him, though, and one in particular is his favorite. Deaton had been boarding her for a couple that left the country, but instead of coming home they settled in and moved, leaving their cat behind. Now Deaton has to find someone to adopt her, but she's so sweet and docile that he's been reluctant to advertise her. The name on her papers is ‘Petunia,’ which Derek finds deplorable, and she's white with a golden brown patch which starts at her nose, covers her ears and the top of her head, and reaches all the way down to the end of her tail. The tips of her paws look like they were dipped in the same golden brown that runs down the back of her, lending to the effect that she's been gently toasted. Derek calls her Marshmallow.

He's feeding Marshmallow currently, wasting time so he doesn't have to go home yet. Marshmallow always eats last so Derek can spend some time with her before he goes home. Every day, she licks his fingers before she eats dinner, like she's saying thank you. Derek really isn't a cat person, but he loves this cat. He reaches down to scratch between her ears as she eats out of a little bowl on the table in front of him. Maybe he'll stay a little longer, sweep and mop tonight so he doesn't have to do it in the morning. Stiles won't be home for a few more hours yet, either; he almost always works late.

Stiles’ dad couldn't afford to send him to college, and Stiles didn't work through high school. After graduation, he picked up as many part-time jobs as he could juggle and put himself through school at the local community college. He doubled up on classes, blew through the coursework like it was nothing, and had his degree in two years, a major in psychology and a minor in criminal justice. After that, his dad helped him get a job as an emergency dispatcher for the Beacon Hills PD. Stiles loves it, being in the thick of things, knowing what's happening and where. Derek is just glad that Stiles enjoys it so much.

Marshmallow finishes her food and rubs her face on Derek’s palm. His phone vibrates and he checks it with his free hand, continuing to pet the cat. A new text from Erica reads, _Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I went home for the night. The prisoner is unguarded._

Derek chuckles softly and replies, _What are the chances of him staying in?_

The response is fast: _Slim to none._

He sighs and pockets his phone, then turns his attention back to Marshmallow. She looks at him with her baby blue eyes and meows plaintively. Derek scratches under her chin.

“Sorry,” he tells her, “I guess I have to go babysit.”

Marshmallow is good, and she goes into her cage without any issues a few minutes later. Derek gives her a toy - a fabric pickle, filled with catnip - and double checks all of the animals before he locks up the clinic and heads out.

Isaac won't be at the loft. Derek knows this, but he _doesn't_ know where Isaac _will_ be,and that's a problem. He doesn't want to waste a lot of time looking, not when Isaac may or may not be in danger. Stiles said the witches may be able to track Isaac and Peter depending on the spells they used, so they're ultimately safer staying put. He doesn't even know if Peter is with Isaac right now, but it seems unlikely that Isaac would go anywhere without him.

If he were Isaac, where would he go to be alone?

Not many places come to mind immediately, but the first one that does, Derek figures it makes sense and is worth checking out - Isaac's childhood home. It's not Isaac's favorite location by any means, but it's familiar, and that's probably what he needs more than anything else right now.

It's about a fifteen minute drive from the business district where Deaton’s clinic is located to the residential community where Isaac and his father used to live. It's almost seven in the evening and the sun hangs low in the sky, but at the tail end of May, it'll be another hour before the sun sets completely. The windows of neighboring houses are illuminated through curtains and blinds, others without covering and some open to let in the warm air. Derek parks across the street from the only darkened house on the block, the curtains still half-drawn, their white lace construction serving as a reminder of when a family once lived here, happy and whole. On the other side of him is Jackson's old house, a larger and slightly newer building, but the Whittemore's sold their property soon after their move to London, and it's been occupied since. Through a gap in the curtains he can see the family living there is sitting down to dinner, two parents and two children, oblivious to the outside world. He lingers for a minute, idly missing the feeling of home and family, and how they translate to safety and comfort.

He doesn't look for long, a feeling of shame creeping over him for peering into something so private and personal. Derek’s neck heats up, reddened by his embarrassment with himself, and he tears himself away from the scene. Derek gets out of the car, and he can tell that Isaac isn't here now, but he had been here only about thirty minutes ago. His scent is still strong, on the street and up the walk; he paused at the front door, then went around to the back--

Derek follows the scent to the back door, opens it, follows Isaac's scent through the house, a beeline through the kitchen, up the stairs to his bedroom, his brother's, his father's - all left in a state that implies their residents will return any minute, with varying layers of dust. Some things in Isaac’s room have been disturbed, piles of clothing have been dug through, kicking up scents old and new. Streaks of dust indicate where things on the desk were shuffled around, although it's impossible to tell if anything was taken without prior knowledge of what the room had contained before. Many of the clothes here wouldn't even fit Isaac anymore, Derek thinks, although it seems almost impossible that three years could make such a difference.

On his way back down the stairs, Derek notes the way small clouds of dust puff out from beneath his shoes with every step, how the wood creaks under his weight. Derek follows Isaac's scent to the basement door, where he hesitates - Isaac didn't hesitate, he rushed, his scent faint here, how he barely touched the doorknob like it burned him, and maybe it did - before covering the scent with his own, gripping the knob firmly and turning--

The door is locked. Isaac's scent doesn't stop here, but he must have locked the door behind himself and crawled out through a window in the basement. But why? To keep possible intruders out, to protect something in the space from prying eyes? Or to keep something in, like the nightmarish memories that the room contained?

Derek leaves the house through the back door and walks around to the side where he knows the unlocked window is. He drops to a crouch and pushes the window inward, the slips through head first, falling awkwardly from the small ledge. He lands on his arm, twisting it, but the pain of the sprain is already receding by the time he's on his feet again. The dust is in thicker layers here, more things having gone untouched for extended periods of time. In the same place that he remembers it is the freezer which Isaac's father had used to torment his son. Isaac didn't touch it or approach it, he probably didn't even look at it as he hurried past toward the row of shelves covering the far wall. Boxes line one shelf, a few are less dusty than the others but one has been opened fully, a flap hanging out over the edge of the shelf catching his attention. Derek pulls the box out enough to peek inside and finds piles of photographs, some in frames stacked on top of full albums. The framed photos have been wiped clear of dust, and Derek notices that all of them feature either the same woman, or the same young man. They must be Isaac's mother and brother, he knows, and he suspects that this box is no longer as full as it had once been.

From here Isaac's scent trails to the window Derek came in through, so he follows it back out of the house, hauling himself up through the short but wide frame. He makes sure to pull the pane shut before he leaves, crossing the street and getting back into his car. If he hadn't brought the vehicle he could follow Isaac's scent on foot, but tracking him this way is harder. Even without his heightened senses, Derek is pretty sure he knows where Isaac had headed from here, so he starts his car and heads toward the end of the street and the intersection that will take him out of this neighborhood.

It's another fifteen minutes to the cemetery, and the gates are already closed for the night when he gets there. He parks outside and easily climbs the fence, heading for the crest of the hill that divides the new graves at the back from the old ones at the front. Derek spots Isaac as soon as he reaches the top of the hill, the only person in sight, standing slightly hunched in front of graves that Derek can't read from that distance. He moves closer with short strides, taking his time, letting Isaac know he's there. Isaac says nothing as he approaches, even as Derek comes to rest beside him, the names on the graves now clear - Camden, April, and Theodore Lahey, son, mother, and father - and they stand in silence until it's too much, and Derek feels like he has to say something, do something.

“You're here by yourself,” Derek says it like it's an observation and not the question that it's meant to be.

“I left Peter at the loft. Turns out he's pretty useless without opposable thumbs.” It's a joke, or at least Derek thinks it's meant to be, but Isaac's tone is so flat he can't really tell. Isaac glances at Derek from the corner of his eye. “I needed some time alone.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise before he can stop them. “Should I go?”

“No,” the word is rushed, like Isaac can't get it out fast enough. “No, I think I'm done being alone for now.”

Derek nods, but doesn't say anything else. They stand in silence for several minutes, Derek waiting for Isaac to speak, Isaac nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Derek puts his hands in his pockets. Isaac shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, then back to his right.

“How did you know I was here?” Isaac asks after a while, fingers curling and uncurling around the hem of his sweatshirt. The movement draws Derek’s attention, and he notices the gray shirt is emblazoned with the Beacon Hills lacrosse team's logo. It's only a bit small, the ends of the sleeves resting just above Isaac's wrists.

“I'm dating the sheriff's son, I have eyes everywhere,” Derek delivers with the most seriousness he can muster before he stops to consider whether Isaac will catch the joke. Isaac's head swivels and he stares owlishly at Derek for a long second before he laughs. It sounds startled at first, but warms up quickly, and Derek quirks the corner of his mouth in a half smile.

“So Derek Hale has finally grown a sense of humor,” Isaac says when he's calmed down again, and Derek isn't even mad about it because it's kind of true.

“Must have,” Derek agrees amiably. The silence stretches between them, Derek aware of Isaac staring at his brother's and father's graves in contemplation. The sun has pitched below the treeline, the last purples and pinks of dusk settling into a deep, inky indigo.

“I guess we should head back,” Isaac says after a while, doing nothing to hide the fact that he obviously wants nothing less. Derek considers this; there aren't a lot of places in Beacon Hills that either of them want to go to, and the cemetery is at least quiet.

“You _want_ to go back?”

“Not really,” Isaac admits, rolling his shoulders and casting his gaze up into the night sky. Derek watches him for a long moment, unsure of how to help yet feeling obligated to do so. “I used to come here a lot. Less, after...”

Isaac trails off, and Derek knows what's being left unspoken. Losing his father had obviously been hard on Isaac, the way he acted out after, the anger that he had buried so deep had bubbled to the surface and exposed the pain that he'd held so close for so long.

“Do you miss him?” Derek asks after a few beats of silence.

“No,” Isaac says bitterly, but then he amends, “I mean...yeah, of course I do. Most people don't understand it, you know, they see it in black and white - ‘he was abusive, so I should hate him’ - but it's not that simple. He was still my dad.”

Derek nods, surprised at how much he's able to empathize. He may have grown up without a father, but his uncle's still recent history of violence against Derek and others is something he's been having a difficult time reconciling with.

Derek breaks the brief, contemplative silence.

“Come on, I want to show you something,” he jerks his head toward the hill, and Isaac gives his brother's grave a lingering look before he turns to follow. Derek leads them up the slope and down a short path, toward a large tree near the fence at the front corner of the cemetery. Spread out beneath the branches of the tree - and probably entwined in its roots - are dozens of graves; the Hale family burial site. A large monument marks their surname, while smaller markers indicate each individual. Derek hears Isaac let out a puff of breath behind him.

“Right after the fire,” Derek starts, and he feels Isaac tense at the mention of it, but he presses on, “I spent a lot of time here, talking to them. Mostly my mom; I missed her guidance more than anything. I thought that building a new pack would fill the void, that I would somehow understand how to be an alpha, like it's an instinct I would just suddenly gain. Obviously, that didn't happen.”

“Derek, no one blames you for how the pack turned out.” Isaac sounds uncertain, like he isn't sure if this is the correct response for the situation.

“I know,” Derek says, and he does know. He still feels an immense amount of guilt over it, but he recognizes that he's been forgiven. Whether or not he deserves it, well, he's still working on that one. “I just meant, you've got a pretty good advantage, all things considered.”

Isaac chuckles, and Derek can't help but feel pleased to see Isaac in even slightly better spirits. Silence falls over them again, and while Derek’s eyes scan the headstones automatically, he knows Isaac is reading each one. The newest, to the far right of the front row, is where they both linger.

“When did…?” Isaac begins the question but never finishes it, looking at Derek with a half-dozen more unasked questions on his face.

“After the police closed the case,” Derek sighs, ignoring the way his heart squeezes in his chest. “There are generations of Hale’s here. Unless someone specifically designates another burial site in their will, they get added to the family plot. Laura always said she wanted to be buried with mom and dad.”

Derek’s throat is tight. He swallows twice, clears it once, blinks back the wet haze that's clouding his vision. If Isaac notices he doesn't say anything, which Derek is silently grateful for.

“And Peter?” Isaac asks softly, and Derek finds the question jarring. “Where will he be buried?”

Derek furrows his eyebrows, growing more troubled by the thought the longer he allows it to linger. “Here, unless he specifies otherwise.”

Isaac purses his lips. Derek can't help but wonder what he's thinking, but he has a feeling Isaac would dodge the question.

“So,” Isaac says carefully when he has apparently deemed it safe to speak again, “You and Peter really are the only ones left.”

Derek shakes his head, and Isaac looks like he wants to ask but is struggling to restrain himself.

“I have a younger sister, about your age,” Derek explains. Isaac's expression of shock is almost worth having to tell the story. “She was in Argentina with our mother's cousins when the fire happened. She’s been there ever since.”

“And she doesn't want to come back? Or for you to visit her?” Isaac is confounded, as if he can't imagine not wanting to see a close relative.

“No,” Derek rolls his neck to one side, then the other. “I haven't told her. About Laura, or Peter, or anything. She probably doesn't even know I'm alive.”

The silence stretches. Derek avoids looking at Isaac, knows that what he'll see there - alarm, pity, more questions - he won't want to deal with. He knows he opened this door, started this by bringing Isaac here, but it's out of Isaac's bad memories and it's out of his temporary prison that is the loft. He knows they both need this.

“Does…” Isaac sounds like he's trying to ask four questions as once. He chews his bottom lip, then tries again. “Do you think that's...what she wants?”

A question Derek has asked himself countless times in the past several years.

“I don't know. But I think it's what's best for her.”

Isaac runs his tongue over his teeth. “Does Peter know?”

Derek looks at him.

Isaac back pedals. “I won't tell him--”

“No, he doesn't know.”

Isaac picks one foot up and delicately rolls an acorn back and forth across the grass with the toe of his shoe, deep in thought.

“That's probably for the best,” Isaac says after about five minutes, acorn long abandoned. Derek nods in agreement, finding that there's little left for him to say.

Except something has been eating away at the back of his mind all day and Derek thinks now might be the best time to bring it up.

“Tell me about your pack?” He asks softly, and Isaac looks slightly startled at the request.

“What do you want to know?” Isaac sounds confused, but his expression is guarded and it makes Derek almost feel guilty for asking, like he's intruding on Isaac’s idyllic life so that he can be jealous of it.

Derek shakes his head. “I don't know.”

He sees and feels Isaac breathe in the darkness beside him.

“There's Em,” Isaac starts, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thinks. “Emily. She watches out for all of us. Dodger, he's the smart one - well, other than Peter. You remember Ethan and Aiden?”

Derek jaw clenches. “The twins that ran with Deucalion?”

Isaac nods. “Yeah, they're ours now, too.”

“They're the ones who originally upset the coven,” Derek says. It's not a question because he doesn't need to ask, it seems obvious, maybe even makes sense. They fled California and went north, ran into the witches, then ran to the nearest pack for protection. “Weren't they alphas?”

“The coven took their powers,” Isaac frowns, a thought seeming to occur to him. “This...isn't going to just fix itself.”

“Hey,” Derek feels responsible for this, and in a way he sort of is, so he tries to be reassuring. “We're going to make this right.”

Isaac looks at Derek, and Derek can see the fear, the hope, and the trust all tangled together in his eyes, and he know he shouldn't but he adds, “I promise.”

Isaac nods, turning away from the rows of graves. “Let's head back.”

They walk to Derek’s car in silence, the light from the half-moon simultaneously  casting shadows and lighting their path. Derek waits until they're in the car and headed away from the cemetery before he speaks again, glancing sideways at Isaac in the dark.

“Deaton is going to drop by and check things out tonight,” Derek sees the dash clock change from 7:59 to 8:00 at the edge of his vision. “Actually, he might already be there.”

“Alone with Peter?” Isaac huffs a quiet laugh. “Poor Deaton.”

Derek can't help but chuckle.

  


They get back to the loft at 8:16, and Deaton is indeed already there. Peter is up on the table when they walk in, looking disinterested as Deaton checks his ears, eyes, and teeth. Derek watches Isaac make a beeline for him without saying a word.

“I hope you don't mind that I let myself in,” Deaton says absently, setting down his pen light. “I figured I could save some time, and save Peter some of his dignity.”

“He doesn't have any,” Derek responds immediately. He tosses his keys into the bowl next to the door. Peter sits back on his haunches as Isaac combs long fingers through his fur.

“It's good to see you, Isaac,” Deaton smiles, ignoring Derek’s comment with ease.

Derek can't help but wonder if this is an indication that they've worked together for too long, or if it's simply another reflection of Deaton’s indefatigable patience. More than once over the years Derek has stood in awe of Deaton, his calm demeanor and endless wisdom serving as constant reminders of his mother. This was the man Talia had chosen to advise her, to mediate for her; in a way, Derek wishes he had been more involved in pack matters as a child, so that he could have known Deaton sooner.

“You too,” Isaac's response brings Derek out of his thoughts, and he's empathetic of the weary tone in Isaac's voice. Deaton embraces Isaac briefly, grasping his shoulders when he pulls back with the same calm smile. The gesture reminds Derek of how a father would embrace his son, and it makes him long for his family and his pack.

“Did you find anything?” Derek asks, concern for Peter having little to do with the inquiry. Deaton turns halfway to face him.

“You aren't going to like the answer,” Deaton starts, looking between Isaac and Derek in turn, his smile now gone. “But, no, not exactly.”

“‘Not exactly’?” Isaac says what Derek’s thinking.

“Aside from the obvious, there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him,” Deaton explains. “When Stiles initially told me about Peter’s condition, I had some concerns about the retention of his mental faculties, but that's clearly not an issue.”

“So he's not in any pain?” Isaac's gaze is intense, but Deaton is unfaltering.

“I didn't say that. There may be nothing wrong with his physical body as a wolf, but he's still under some strain. Typically, only a few alphas are able to achieve a full shift, and many won't hold it for long - it's exhausting, and painful. The longer he stays like this, the more painful it will get.”

Derek is surprised, although he has a feeling he shouldn't be. He knows his mother had been capable of a shift like this, but never once had she told him that it hurt.

Isaac clutches Peter’s fur tightly, his grief evident on his face.

“How do we change him back?” Isaac's voice is strong despite how downtrodden he looks, his resolve apparently unwavering.

Deaton’s eyebrows raise. “That's the real dilemma. Very few alphas can complete a full shift like this, and as far as I know Peter isn't one of them. The shift was forced by the spell, but it's difficult to tell if it's still active.”

“Meaning what?” Derek asks.

“Meaning, it could be that the spell is keeping him this way, or that he can't shift back because he doesn't know how.”

Isaac and Derek look at each other over Deaton’s head, more than a little bit of concern etched into Isaac’s features.

“Can you figure it out?” Isaac still sounds so resolute. Derek really has to give him credit for how strong he's been through all of this.

“Given some time, yes,” Deaton collects the instruments of his trade and places them neatly into a leather briefcase. “You were also attacked, weren't you Isaac?”

“Yeah,” he's hesitant now, but he pushes onward, “When they took Peter’s alpha powers, they gave them to me.”

Deaton presses his lips into a thin line, his brow furrowed as he regards Isaac carefully. “Are you experiencing any pain?”

“No,” Isaac admits, glancing at Peter guiltily.

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“No,” Isaac shakes his head. “Do you know how to fix it?”

“Honestly?” Deaton sounds as baffled as he looks. “I have no idea. I'll look into it, though. For now, the best advice I can give you is to just sit tight and call me if anything changes.”

“Thank you for all of your help,” Isaac says as Deaton closes his briefcase and heads for the door.

Deaton smiles kindly at Isaac over his shoulder. “It's what I'm here for. Goodnight, Derek.”

“See you tomorrow,” Derek says as amiably as he can, then makes sure the door is secure once Deaton is out.

Peter leans heavily on Isaac, while Isaac idly pets behind Peter’s ears. Derek watches for a moment before he decides he probably shouldn't, and instead he makes for the kitchen.

There's a few dishes left out from breakfast that he should clean up, and he knows he should probably have another meal before bed, but he just can't bring himself to care. He stands in the center of the kitchen, staring between the refrigerator, the stove, and the dishes, tormented by his own indecision. Finally, he hears the clatter of claws as Peter jumps down from the table and climbs the stairs; Isaac calls out a goodnight to Derek and follows suit.

Derek leaves the kitchen without making making a decision. He sits on the couch, staring at the flat black of the TV, mulling over the events of the last few hours until he hears the familiar groan of the Jeep’s engine in the parking lot below and a few minutes later Stiles is coming through the door.

“Hey,” Stiles sounds surprised to see Derek still awake, concern creeping into his tone. He tosses his keys and kicks off his shoes, shedding pieces of his uniform as he makes his way across the loft.

“Hey yourself,” Derek smiles when Stiles arrives in front of him, divested of all clothes save his boxers, socks, and undershirt. Stiles moves and then he's sprawled across Derek’s lap, one arm hooked around his neck and one knee slung over the arm of the couch. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles relaxes against him. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Stiles dismisses the topic quickly and without consideration. “Did Deaton come by?”

“Yeah,” is all Derek supplies.

Stiles waits a few seconds for him to continue. When he doesn't, “Well?”

Derek shakes his head. Stiles groans and throws his body down into Derek’s grip, exaggerating the motion of falling limp. The gesture succeeds in conveying his exasperation with the situation.

“He said he's looking into it,” Derek shrugs weakly. Stiles snaps back to life, leaning his head against Derek’s shoulder.

“I hate waiting for things,” Stiles grumbles. Derek pats Stiles’ knee with his free hand, their shared impatience almost tangible. They sit in silence for a long time, until Stiles heaves a sigh and the warmth of his breath tickles the side of Derek’s neck.

“Hey,” Derek smooths a hand over Stiles’ leg, and Stiles lifts his head to meet Derek’s gaze. “Thank you. For putting up with this.”

Stiles sighs again, longer. “Isaac is pack, and as much as I kind of hate him sometimes, he's kind of my friend,” he pauses, frowns. “I'm not thrilled about Peter being here, though.”

“I'm not happy about it either,” Derek assures him. He leans in to press a kiss to the side of Stiles’ head, but Stiles turns at the last second and catches Derek’s lips with his own.

“Give Deaton another day or two,” Stiles says when they part, bumping his forehead against Derek’s. “He'll find a solution, and then everything will go back to normal. Whatever ‘normal’ is.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He's unconvinced - nothing is ever that easy - but he doesn't say so. Maybe Stiles is right. Maybe, for once, things will go their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more on the way. Hopefully without another four-month vacation.
> 
> Let me know if anyone is still reading this, yeah?


End file.
